Crows are on my windowsill. I would expect morning doves, on account of the hour, but can you tell me any time you ever saw morning doves in the morning? But no, I’ve got crows. I used to think crows were a sign of something bad. Something dead, something about to die. It’s all the same, really. Dead or dying is the same, depending on when you bring it up. If you say something is dying, in your own mind it’s already dead. The meantime is just filler. A bonus, if you’re an optimist. Postponing the inevitable if you’re a pessimist. I’m not sure what realists call it. Last chance to find home, I guess.

I remember the time you woke me up in the morning, complaining about how I always slept with the blinds closed. I didn’t like the sun streaming in on my face while I was trying to sleep. You didn’t like how the sun didn’t stream on my face while I tried to wake up. But as you noticed, I sleep with the blinds open now. It’s not to see the sun in the morning, nor is it to see the crows on the windowsill, as I couldn’t have anticipated that. I think it’s to see the glow in the sky when the sun goes down. It’s the city, and it’s nothing like Utah, but it’s still a glow. Sometimes I just sit up and look out the window, watching the glow. I wonder if over the horizon, the people there see the glow when they look towards me, or if it’s already dark there.

Sorry, I’m rambling. Crows. On my windowsill. I used to think they meant something bad was coming. Now I understand they’re just like us. They hop around, trying to get by, looking for food, and just generally making a life for themselves. Sometimes they’re alone, and sometimes they aren’t. Usually when they all get together it’s for a funeral of sorts. Or a meal, depending on whether you’re a pessimist or an optimist. It makes me wonder whether crows recognize one another. They all look the same to me. I’m looking at two, now, on my windowsill, and I can’t really tell them apart. Could be the same crow for all I know. Just some spasm in some inter dimensional dance that put the same thing in two places. Maybe that’s how crows feel about us. Yeah, I bet they’re just like us. Only difference is they recognize one another when they meet again.

This all may be somewhat confusing for you, our history being what it is (or I suppose from your perspective, what it isn’t), so I’ll try to keep this as concise as I can. But you know me; that never was a strong point of mine. Well, you knew me. Case in point, I guess.

It’s been a long time.

I don’t really know how to say this, which is painfully obvious to you by now, but perhaps you understand that the end of the story for me is only the beginning for you, but the beginning was even before your beginning. It may surprise you that you loved me, once, but if it’s any consolation, I was much different then. Not like now. I was young; we both were, really, and I had a place back then. You would wake me up in the morning and complain about my blinds being down. You always had orange juice. I think you bought it on the way to my apartment, but I’m not really sure. For all I knew you had a whole carton in my fridge and I just never noticed it. Fridges aren’t exactly something I tend to dwell on. So cold and dark. Not dark when they’re opened, I suppose. Ironic that it is often the pessimists that open fridges the most. Only a realist could fully comprehend the dichotomy of the interior light in a refrigerator.

Only a pessimist could fully understand a realist.

You always bantered on about how strange it is that orange juice was considered a morning drink, which was more curious still what with you drinking it every time you came over. But you seemed baffled by the idea that people would drink in the morning something that had such positively toxic results when combined with toothpaste, or even when consumed just after brushing your teeth. I suppose it explained why you always brushed your teeth at my apartment, despite never staying over. Even still, strange. I’d counter by saying that orange juice was around longer than toothbrushes, and you’d recounter that such traditions should not have survived the absolute inundation of oral hygiene in our society.

But it wasn’t all morning wake up calls for me. At night, I’d take you home, and tuck you in. You curled up in your blankets and we talked for hours and hours, and it always made me wonder how you woke up so early. We would talk about the days, which was really just talking about the nights, if you were somewhere else in the world. You weren’t though. You were there, with me, and I with you. You wrinkled your nose when you laughed, and that made me laugh. We talked about music, or the lack of music. We talked about the risk of turtles falling into elevator shafts, and we talked about how jokes came to be funny, or if they were just always funny. We wondered about the mathematic harmonization of sound forming something that humans could barely live without. Sure, of course, you think now that maybe we could live without it, but think: every culture on the planet has music. Every one of them. Isolated tribes in the jungle who think airplanes are demons have music too. We talked about Kings being viewed as noble and wise in stories, but archaic and repressive in real life. Maybe stories were more realistic. More realistic than what we even tell ourselves about real life. And then, when you were tired, you asked for a story. Always a story. I don’t really know any stories, you see, but there was one story you always asked for. Then, as now, it was the only story I knew.

There was a girl who lived in a cottage in the wilderness. She was alone. Nobody ever came to visit, as nobody knew she was there. Nor did she ever visit anyone else for, save one, she knew where no one lived. This woman was a seamstress, and she lived for no other purpose but to sew. But she did not sew like so many, attaching one piece of fabric to another, but instead worked with much more care. It is a care none have ever seen before or since. Each thread was placed by hand, precisely as it should be. Each morning she would wake up, eat some bread from the oven, and begin to place her cloth. Strand by strand she laid it, and each time a mistake was made, she would unravel it completely and start anew. When the day was done, she placed the empty pan back into the oven, and go to sleep. And the next day she awoke, ate bread fresh from the oven, and began to place her thread.

Every.

Day.

For.

Ten.

Years.

And after ten years of seemingly endless labor, she placed a new thread. And it lay exactly as it ought. And she place another, and it too, lay exactly as it ought. And so she placed a third, and against every odd, it too was perfect. And so she continued, and as the sun went down, she had placed 500 strands. Each was perfect, and lay exactly as it ought. And so, that night, she placed an empty pan in the oven, and went to sleep.

And the next day, she placed another strand atop those already placed, and it lay perfectly. She placed another, and it lay perfectly as well. And by the end of the day, she had laid 1,000 strands, and each lay exactly as it should. And so she placed an empty pan in the oven, and went to sleep, finally having formed a piece of cloth that you or I would see as little more than a scrap.

And the third day she awoke, and placed her thread. And the fourth, and the fifth.

Every.

Day.

For.

Ten.

Years.

And after ten years of seemingly endless labor, she laid her last strand. And for her toils, what stood before her in the cottage was the perfect dress. It was white as snow, and possessed such fine placement that no individual thread could be seen. It was as if a cloud were stretched so evenly that no surface, nor curve, could even be seen. It held no shadows on any side, and to the eyes of any man, it glowed.

And so at only noon, she put on the dress, and stood by her mirror. And once there, she began to take her hair and place each strand exactly where it belonged. One by one, each must be perfect.

-I think you see where this is going.

After ten years, every hair was placed more flawlessly than any individual hair had ever been placed on any other woman. It came from her as waves and ripples from a fountain- it, like the dress, was without seam or defect, and no end could be seen. It flowed effortlessly and yet precisely. She was finally ready.

And so, after 30 years of preparation, she put on her shoes, carves completely of ivory (for putting on shoes only takes a moment), and stepped outside, not having seen the sky since she was a little girl. Before her stood a carriage, complete with horses as white as snow, and a carriage immaculate and pure. On the surface of the carriage was carved a story, in images. More detailed than any carving ever made, each grain played a part in the story.

And you would ask me the story on the carriage.

There was a poor girl, dirty and orphaned. She lived under the porch of a wealthy family in the city. Every day the wealthy man would leave his home for work; he would stomp and growl and make all sorts of noise that woke the little urchin living beneath his feet, but he never knew she was there. He was a short, fat man, with oily black hair and a stumpy nose. His eyes were beady and dull, and his voice harsh and raspy. And when the noise woke her, the street urchin would begin her work, weaving baskets.

Every weave of each basket was laid as perfectly as she could. Each piece reinforced another, and so she started her baskets strong and smooth. Strand by strand she weaved, certain to make a perfect basket. Strand by strand she placed them, and no one in the kingdom could match such flawless craft.

But each day near noon, when she was half complete, the rich mans wife would come out onto the porch. She was tall and frail, her age clearly besting her, and her head was crowned with wispy grey hair. She was cruel and vile; each morning she would stomp and yell, cursing the girl under her porch, throwing her dirty water from the morning onto the porch so that it sept down onto her. The girl would become distracted and discouraged, and began to weave very poorly. She would miss ties, and the weaves would begin to work against each other, and the basket would become weak and warped. The water from the rich mans wife would seep down onto her, soaking her hair and clothes and soaking in to the basket, causing the weaves to flex and distort.

Each evening, the poor girl would complete her basket and crawl out from under the steps to sell it. When she did, every night, the rich man’s son would return from his expensive school and see the girl, her clothes muddy and tattered, his own prim and refined, her hair matted and filthy, his own groomed and regal, and her baskets warped and nearly useless. But the boy had compassion, and so each day he bought from her a basket, imperfect though it was, having saved the money his father gave him for bread before school, and before going to sleep, he placed the tattered basket back under his porch, so that the next morning the poor girl could unravel the basket and attempt to make it again.

One morning, when the girl was nearly ten, she had saved all the gold the rich mans son had given her, and she ran away, and was never seen again. And the rich boy became very sad, because although each evening the girls appearance was filthy and wretched, he knew that she deserved to be perfect.

“That’s a long story just to be on the side of a carriage,” you said. And you were right, but of course it used all four sides of the carriage to tell the story. But the woman from the cottage knew the story well, as all the people of the kingdom knew the story well, so she didn’t have to walk around it to read it, or have anyone tell her like I told you. Instead, she just got in the carriage.

“Then what, did she ride in it for ten years?” Your nose wrinkled. You asked that each time, and thought you were so clever each time.

The driver climbed up onto the carriage, and coaxed his flawless horses into motion. They tore off with tremendous speed, leaving the cottage in the wilderness as a speck on the horizon without effort or glance. For hours the driver pushed the horses, but they never grew tired and never slowed, as they were a superb breed, and some said, perfect. They knew no misstep, and found no obstacle. Through the night and the following day they ran, never stopping, even for food, for in the carriage was one basket, imperfect and warped, filled to the brim with fresh bread and honey and jams and butter and every kind of delicacy she could have dreamed. As the carriage drove, she began to see more and more people pass by her through the windows. Young and old, they were all dressed as best they could, and were making their way the same direction the carriage took her. And as she passed, they all stopped and stared, completely mesmerized. The woman began to feel wary. She had not seen people in many years, nor had they seen her.

Finally, as evening neared, the carriage pulled to the gates of the castle. Banners streamed from the high walls, and torches were lit on every wall, revealing the truly magnificent architecture and majesty of the royal fortress. Hundreds of carriages lined from the gates to the ballroom, each taking its turn, the drivers opening the doors for the guests, and returning to his carriage to make way for the next. For what seemed an eternity, the woman’s carriage plodded its way to the doors, hers being the last. When finally she reached the door, the driver dismounted and opened the door for her, and for the first time in nearly two days she stepped out of the carriage onto the gilded carpet leading into the ballroom.

The doors were massive and oak, and bore the same carvings the carriage held. Two royal guards took hold of each handle on the gargantuan doors, and threw their complete weight against it, slowly making a way for the woman. And as they did, all of the guests inside turned their attention to the massive threshold, none expecting another guest.

And as their sight was carried to the woman, the entire ballroom fell into a complete silence, exaggerated still more by the impossible glory of the room. The ceilings were a hundred feet high, made of a perfectly clear crystal displaying the stars in the sky above. Each tile on the floor was a single slab of marble, each larger than the roof of a whole house, and hundreds of them. A full orchestra was at the far end of the ballroom, tucked into a cove lined entirely in gold so as to fill the music itself with richness and warmth. Tables with the most immaculate feasts lined every wall, and what appeared to be a small army of servants kept every dish filled to capacity. The guests were every person of any position in the kingdom- governors and mayors, wealthy merchants and artists of world renown, scientists and poets- each had their place in this room, and each felt a tremendous feeling of privilege to have been invited.

But no matter their stature, all stood amazed at the woman before them. As the doors were pulled to their stops they thundered and groaned against their hinges before falling to an eerie silence. Every single eye in the castle was drawn to her. She was nervous. She looked across the entire room, but seeing no one. No one but him.

She took a single step onto the floor, her ivory heel reverberating a click up through the ballroom and into the heavens. She hesitated, thinking perhaps she was unwelcome here. Everyone looked at her and was mesmerized. They dared not blink for fear of missing a single instant of what was happening. She took a second step, and with it, gained a small amount of confidence and grace. And then a third, and fourth. With it, she seemed to be floating through the ballroom as if even the air itself dared not brush against her and in doing so roughen her journey. Her dress flowed and swayed without effort in more perfect and graceful strokes than any master painter has made with a brush. Each step of her foot sent an echo through the kingdom that reminded each and every soul to gaze at her with their fullness of being, though they’d not forgotten. The light of candles, torches, and lamps all radiated off every surface and seemed to bend their paths to her, making the magnificent ballroom and its magnificent guests seem dim and dull compared to her. To the eyes of every man, she glowed.

And as slowly as she had begun, she slowed her steps as she neared him. Four steps from him and she slowed her stride. Three steps, and she all but stopped. Two steps away from him, and it almost seemed as though she had reversed, and the last step came slowly, deliberately, and as all her tasks, placed more perfectly than any step has ever been placed. And finally, she was stopped, close enough to him that she could feel is breath against her face, and the sound of his heartbeat every so slightly nudged her ears.

He was a man, a king, unlike any the world has ever seen. His hair was dark, like charcoal, and drew light into him. His eyes were bright, and blue and radiated like the glow of the sun through the mist. This crown was ornate, covered in jewels of every exoticness. He was a brilliant general, and his greying, short-trimmed beard hid the scars on his face, but poured out the wisdom and kindness of his years. His coat was covered in medals and prizes of war, and at his side he wore a sword cast of a single piece of gold, and covered from hilt to tip with diamonds.

The two locked eyes, and leaned even closer still, neither saying a word, and the whole of the kingdom looking upon them. Never in all of history was there any silence as there was then. The king leaned in to the woman’s ear, his beard ever so slightly brushing her cheek, and in a whisper that could not even be heard, he said,

“It’s been a long time.”